


The Rifle Club (Ch3)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Deleted Scenes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Handcuffs, Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Naked Sherlock, Past Rape/Non-con, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John and Sherlock follow a mysterious clue. After being attacked, John wakes up next to naked Sherlock.





	The Rifle Club (Ch3)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.
> 
> Takes place after the events of The Blind Banker - S1 E2 
> 
> Action picks up right after chapter 2 - The Friendly Society

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903789/chapters/37233479)

“In the book the Room is 217. It’s 237 only in the movie,” Sherlock threw the book on the table. “Someone is trying to be smart and leaving clues while at the same time having no idea what he’s doing.” 

“He?” 

“Obviously. 

“Obviously...” 

“I rented the movie,” Sherlock tossed a DVD box and John caught it one-handed. 

“It says  _Full Metal Jacket_ ,” John frowned at the cover. 

“I watched  _The Shining_  and _Eyes Wide Shut_  overnight.” 

John imagined Sherlock watching  _Eyes Wide Shut_  and his brows lifted. The sexual theme of that movie made him wish he had been there to watch it along with him. His frown deepened at the road his thoughts had taken and he shook his head to clear it. 

They sat on the couch and played  _Full Metal Jacke_ _t_  on the laptop situated on the coffee table. Within five minutes Sherlock was sprawled on the couch fast asleep, his cold bare feet behind John’s back. John wasn’t particularly keen on watching war movies these days so he turned it off and checked his emails. Not fifteen minutes had passed since Sherlock fell asleep when he sat up with an intake of breath, like Nosferatu from his coffin.   

“John! I know where we have to go,” he jumped to his feet and with a swish of his robe was off to his bedroom.   

John was putting his jacket on when Sherlock entered the sitting room, clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. Without a word, they headed outside. 

The cab took forever to take them to Wimbledon Common, to an old red brick building with a barn next to it. The place looked shady but John hadn’t expected anything less. 

“You want me to wait?” Even the cabbie was concerned, John noticed. This didn’t bode well. He double checked his jacket to make sure he had brought his gun. 

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Sherlock but John wasn’t convinced that it was the brightest idea. 

“Did you call the police?” John asked already walking a dirt road towards the funky construction.  

“What for? It’s a personal matter.” 

“So you  _do_  know who it is?” 

“No. But he managed to get in and out of our place without stealing anything, so he’s not after what I have but me.” 

“He what?” 

“Pay attention, John,” Sherlock squatted and started picking the lock in the tall wooden door with some pins that magically appeared in his hand. 

“May I?” asked John and took a step back as Sherlock moved out of his way. After his second kick, the door swung open and John could swear he could see Sherlock smile as he went inside first. 

It was an abandoned shooting range. Over the desk by the entrance hung a sign “Rifle Club” with a logo consisting of a military helmet with the words “Born to kill” on it. It became clear to John how Sherlock had found the place. The connection to Kubrick's movies was bizarre to say the least.  

Sherlock checked all the light switches in sight but the bulbs were removed.  _Someone was waiting for them_ , John thought. The wind caused the door to give out a long screeching creak before it slammed shut. They were bathed in semi-darkness, the only illumination being an industrial ceiling light further down the corridor to their right.  

With a meaningful look at each other that conveyed agreement, they headed towards it. John was faintly aware of his heart joining the cat and mouse game they were apparently a part of. Their steps were echoing through the empty space.  

Seemingly from out of nowhere, or as John noticed too late, a room situated along the corridor, a man jumped out at Sherlock. John reacted immediately but the bulky bloke stabbed Sherlock in the neck with a syringe. John threw himself into soldier mode and knocked the much larger man to the floor with an expert left hook. Sherlock was on the floor, his eyes unfocused when John knelt next to him.  

“Sherlock!”  

John slapped his friend on the cheek. Once. “Sherlock!” Twice. He must have been given a strong sedative. _Think, John._  His military training proved to be just as useful as his medical one when he was leaving the house with Sherlock. Now however, he didn’t get the chance to do much more than collapse next to the detective as his own neck was stabbed with a syringe full of the same substance. 

_ _ _ 

John woke up to a pounding head, a body that felt like it had taken a serious beating and something heavy on his chest and right arm. He couldn’t move the arm, or anything else for that matter. From the stiffness of his back, he knew he was on the floor. He couldn’t remember what had happened. His hurting brain didn’t like the idea of opening his eyes but he did it anyway. The head he could faintly see on his chest explained the pressure there. John’s eyes refocused and in the dim light he saw black curls sprawled on his torso and a lean body wrapped around his right side.  

“Sherlock?” he croaked, his throat was dry so he cleared it and tried again. “Sherlock?” 

“John...” came a mumbled voice and the man half-lying on him wrapped an arm around his abdomen. Sherlock was semi-conscious and hugging him, his body a warm blanket on John. He looked so helpless, so fragile, so … naked? 

 _What the hell_ _had_ _happened?_  John tried to wriggle but couldn’t take his arm from under his friend if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. They must have been drugged with a paralytic because he was barely able to move the rest of his body as well. A mix of sedative and a tiny dose of succinylcholine. They were potassium chloride away from a lethal injection. He looked around trying to determine where they were being held and by whom. John’s head was reeling. 

Sherlock tightened his grip on John and whispered his name again. It was a tad bizarre that Sherlock was whispering his name in a semi-conscious state but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.  _Think, John, think._   

At least he was wearing his clothes, unlike his friend whose warm body was so close to his own. The feeling started to come back to John’s left hand and he managed to reach the small pen-like torch he kept in his breast pocket. The narrow stream of light showed they were still in the building. Red brick adorned the walls of warehouse-sized space. Wooden crates were scattered on the ground. 

“Ah the good doctor is awake,” came an unfamiliar voice from the other end of the room, “it’s verra nice to finally meet you.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” spat John but the man just laughed. Slowly he came out of the shadows, his tall and lean silhouette now slightly illuminated by John’s flashlight. Sherlock chose this moment to stir. 

“John?” he opened his eyes and sat up, abruptly resulting in John’s right arm being tugged. They were handcuffed together. John was still partially paralysed but thankfully, Sherlock’s muscles were functional by the look of them. Not only that, but John was able to see more than he ever had before, even in the poor light. 

“Sherlock. I knew you’d find me. You’ve always been so clever at deducing things,” the man sneered the word ‘deducing' with such contempt that John was sure he definitely met Sherlock before.  

“Come closer, you idiot,” Sherlock's tongue wasn’t paralysed either. 

“Your petty name calling won’t affect me any more.” The kidnapper was coming closer now but not before he pushed a switch on the wall. The light from overhead was temporarily blinding but now they were able to see the man approaching them. 

“Anymore? But I don’t know you,” Sherlock looked as confused as John felt.  

“Ah, you don’t remember me. But I remember you. I remember how you ruined my life,” the red-haired man was very close now. “How my life crumbled and my promising career went to shit because of you.” 

“What did he do?” John was getting impatient.  

“He ruined my life!” the kidnapper yelled now. 

“Yes, you said that. Be more specific.” Sherlock was sharing John’s sentiment apparently. 

“I was close to graduating from the film academy when this piece of shit had to be clever.” At that he pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sherlock. John recognized it because it was his own. “He told my girlfriend that I was sleeping with her best friend. She broke up with me!” 

“Oh that. Hardly my fault, don’t you think?” 

“Sherlock, bad timing,” John didn’t want to find out if the redhead was trigger happy. His choice of venue suggested he just might be. 

“We were supposed to get married and I was to inherit her father’s production company. Fame was waiting for me. I’d have had it all if not for you!” He waved the gun now. John realized that he wasn’t even holding it correctly. He wouldn’t shoot, he didn’t know how. The illusion of grandeur and theatrics were working to his disadvantage. He might fire accidentally though. No one knew where they were so their bodies wouldn’t even be found for a long time. 

John realized that Sherlock had moved a little to the side, as far as the handcuffs allowed. Judging by Sherlock’s barely perceptible huddling, he must be embarrassed by his nakedness. John forced his gaze away. Sherlock didn’t deserve the humiliation.  His voice was steady and showed no sign of embarrassment when he spoke.  

“Hmmm was that what your new wife told you when she left you? What was it, three months ago? Took your house, even your car. She did leave you her cat though. You found another gullible one and promised her she’d have everything she wanted and you didn’t deliver so she left you too. Now you’re trying to exercise some petty revenge on me. I didn't do this to you. You managed that all on your own.” 

The redheaded man was putting his palms over his ears while still holding the gun. Yup, definitely not an experienced shooter.  

“Let's settle this. Just put the gun down,” John started. 

“No! I have pictures now,” he waved the gun again. “Pictures of the great Sherlock Holmes naked. What will your fans say, huh? You can say goodbye to your career after they see you in a compromising position with another man. You disgust me and now the whole world will see it, too,” he sneered in their direction. 

“You homophobe,” John whispered, appalled. 

“What did you say?” the redhead was coming closer to John now. Very close. John intentionally hadn’t moved when the feeling in his body came back. Now he sprang to his feet to grab the gun while Sherlock, following the cue, punched the guy in the face with his un-cuffed fist. John checked his pulse. He was breathing, just unconscious.  

“What an arsehole,” John observed as he turned towards his friend. His very naked friend. Sherlock tried to look suave but John could see the red tint on his cheeks. Sherlock’s body was lean to the point that John made a mental note to make sure he ate more from now on. John’s eyes travelled over the detective's body of their own volition. From the sharp jaw he knew so well, the chest and arms that were so strong when needed, to the abdomen and... 

“Focus, John. We have to move before he wakes up,” Sherlock tugged on the handcuffs binding them together. In the far corner, he saw a bundle containing his clothes and the detective pulled John in that direction. Cooperating while handcuffed was harder than John had imagined but somehow, they put Sherlock’s right arm though the sleeve of his coat and buttoned it so that the other arm was bare. It looked like a Roman toga but it was the best they could do. They took the rest of Sherlock’s clothes and ran down the corridor, back the way they had come in, towards the exit.  

The door swung open to reveal Greg with his gun out and a whole squad of police officers behind him. John gave Sherlock a narrowed-eyed stare. “You cock,” he laughed, the elation of making it out alive taking over. Sherlock smirked and ignored Greg’s questions of ‘Are you okay? What happened?’ and ‘Are you naked?’ instead just asked him to open the handcuffs still joining him and John. 

“Sherlock?  _You appear to read a good deal_ about the sod  _which was quite invisible to me,_ ”* 

“ _Not invisible, but unnoticed_ , John.  _You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a bootlace_.” **  

“What was that about the wife and the cat?” John was curious to know. Sherlock gave him a boastful smile before he continued. 

“We took a taxi to come here; there was no vehicle around the perimeter, so he had to have taken a taxi too. He walked part of the way – his coat was still damp from the drizzle. He had a dent on his ring finger, which means he got fat after he put his wedding ring on. Probably had to remove it by cutting it through which suggests the wife left him. If she was dead, he would have kept the ring, maybe put it on a chain around his neck. People are sentimental like that. He had cat fur on his trousers but not the sleeves of his coat or jumper, which means the cat rubs on him but he doesn’t pet it. He doesn’t like the cat, ergo it’s his ex-wife’s.” Sherlock fired the information in rapid succession.  

“Amazing,” John breathed. 

“We found another bloke unconscious inside. Big bastard too,” Lestrade joined John and Sherlock. “Looks like hired muscle.” 

“He’s probably the one who attacked us with the syringes,” John informed Greg. “You might want to intubate him, he may have trouble breathing,” John advised the medical staff already on their way with a stretcher. 

When the redheaded kidnapper was dragged out, hands cuffed behind his back, John had to ask one question. “How did you know what to use for sedation and paralysis and how much to use?”  

“Oh I had help. You could say Sherlock has a fan,” he didn’t manage to say anything else as the back door to the police car was shut with him inside. 

 

_ _ _ 

 

They were safe, dressed, back at 221B and climbing the familiar stairs together. The rush of elation and the still-vivid image of the detective naked went to John’s head, and without much thought he grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and they both stumbled to his bedroom. He pushed Sherlock on the slammed door and held him there. Sherlock’s mouth opened, his face a study of feelings that John failed to identify.   

“No,” John covered Sherlock’s mouth with his palm. “You won’t ruin this. Not now.” Sherlock didn’t move, his eyes were like saucers, fixed on John. Looking at John’s eyes, then his mouth and back again. John lifted the palm and immediately pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. It was a clash at first, hard and awkward. But John knew how Sherlock kissed and he wanted it. He wanted it more than his next breath. Finally, he got his wish.  _You don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burnt_ ; was the last coherent thought running through John’s mind before he was stripped of his jacket and thrown onto the bed.  Sherlock was stronger than he looked  and  he used that strength to pin John’s arms above his head and mould his lips to John’s.  _Oh_ _those lips._   

John opened to the kiss and was rewarded with a masterful swirl of tongue that took his breath away. Breathing was overrated anyway.  

“I kept the handcuffs,” John’s playful tone changed quickly when Sherlock's eyes met his. 

“Next time,” Sherlock whispered just above his lips. 

 _Wait, what? Sherlock was serious. Oh God, next time?_  John’s expression must have reflected his thoughts, because the smile on Sherlock’s face held plans John wasn’t sure he was ready for. 

Sherlock’s left hand remained pinning John’s but his right slid along John’s chest and lower, reaching between their flushed bodies. John arched into the touch of Sherlock’s hand on his cock through his trousers. A low rumble left Sherlock’s throat and John relished the sound of his detective growling because he was touching him. More, John wanted more. He was being kissed by a mind reader because a second after that thought, John’s belt was gone, thrown carelessly against the wall and his zip was down.  

“Oh God,” John managed to groan as Sherlock broke the kiss to pull John’s trousers and underwear down. 

“Not quite,” smirked Sherlock as he sat back on John’s thighs, knees bent and spread wide, the tent in his trousers impossible to ignore. He shed his coat then paused to look at John, scanning his body from his face to his cock and back. The possessive twinkle in Sherlock’s eye made him look even more irresistible. John was gone. Only a puddle of need was left in his place. He wasn’t gay, he had never even considered he could be. The man in front of him however, made him question everything. John was Sherlock-sexual.  

“Yes,” he realized he said it out loud only after the word left his mouth. Just like that, Sherlock was back on him. Nipping his earlobe, neck and collarbone. John was vaguely aware he was making embarrassing noises but it didn’t matter. Sherlock’s hand was working his cock in a smooth rhythm. The detective was playing him like he did his violin and John was happy to be the instrument. He was greedy though. He wanted it all. 

His hands, now free, reached to tug at the belt around Sherlock’s waist. “You’re clean. I checked your records,” said John on an exhale, “Sorry.” 

“I am? That’s good. Good,” came the response from directly above his ear, sending shivers from John’s ear to his groin. 

“You didn’t know? What did you do to...?” John’s brain came back online as he considered Sherlock’s response.  _Was it the drugs? Needles?_  Suddenly all the tactile pleasure was gone as Sherlock removed his hands and sat back up as before.  

“Don’t you know, John? Young boys in boarding schools don’t like it when you’re smarter than them. Especially when you keep pointing it out,” the words came out cold and dripping with pain. 

 _Oh_ _dear God._ _You_ _poor man, what happened to you?_  The tightness in John’s chest made it hard to breathe. He reached for his friend, he wanted to hold him. “Sherlock...” 

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock’s voice was hard. Angry. All the tenderness was gone and a cold mask took its place. “Don’t you  _dare_  give me that look. I don’t want your pity. Or anybody else’s,” with those words Sherlock’s weight lifted off John and the slam of the door was equivalent to the slam of Sherlock’s heart shut.  

John felt wetness in the corner of his eye. He wanted to run after Sherlock, tell him that he was sorry, that he didn’t see him differently now, that no matter what happened to him, he was his...friend. But he was more than that, wasn’t he? Sherlock had jump-started his life, even more, had given him a  _new_  life. His brooding humour and ridiculous ideas added colour to John’s existence, a colour he never knew could shine so brightly. When that brightness was missing, John’s world was too dark to live in, just like the room surrounding him now. He’d rather remain Sherlock’s friend that lose him completely. Because there cannot be John without Sherlock.  

**Author's Note:**

> * ** Quotes taken from A.C. Doyle’s “A Case of Identity”


End file.
